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“You can’t learn anything from fishing books and videos, but once you had to buy a lot of them to find that out. Now all you need to buy is this one book!”—Brian R. Peterson A collection of the best and funniest jokes and cartoons about fishing, with special emphasis on bass fishing (and gear) and fly fishing. Companion outdoor book to Laughing it Up in Deer Camp, Hook, Lyin’ & Sinker is an unusually rich collection of fishing humor not found elsewhere. A good humor book for those of good humor, smartly curated for all ages and genders. It’s for people who may or not fish who need a laugh or want to give a laugh to friends and family members who fish any water, any fish species, and any technique.
Reading Paul Howard: The Art of Ross O’Carroll Kelly offers a thorough examination of narrative devices, satirical modes, cultural context and humour, in Howard’s texts. The volume argues that his academic critical neglect is due to a classic bifurcation in Irish Studies between high and popular culture, and will use the thought of Pierre Bourdieu, Sigmund Freud, Mikhail Bakhtin and Jacques Derrida to critique this division, building a theoretical platform from which to examine the significance of Howard’s work as an Irish comic and satirical writer. Addressing both the style and the substance of his work, this text locates him in a tradition of Irish satirical writing that dates back to the Gaelic bards, and includes writers like Swift, Wilde, Flann O’Brien and Joyce. Through textual and contextual analysis, this book makes the case for Howard as a significant and original voice in Irish writing, whose fusion of the three traditional types of satire (Horatian, Juvenalian and Menippean), has created a parallel Ireland that shines a satirical light on its real counterpart. As Freud suggests, humour is a way of accessing aspects of the psyche that normative discourses cannot enunciate, and Howard, through the confessional voice of Ross, offers a fictive truth on twenty years of Irish society, a truth that is not accessed by discourse in the public sphere or by what could be termed literary or high cultural fiction.
So there I was, roysh, class legend, schools rugby legend, basically all-round legend, when someone decides you can't, like, sit the Leaving Cert four times. Well that put a focking spanner in the works. But joining the goys at college wasn't the mare I thought it would be, basically for, like, three major reasons: beer, women and more women. And for once I agree with Fionn about the, like, education possibilities. I mean, where else can you learn about Judge Judy, laminating fake IDs and, like, how to order a Ken and snog a girl at the same time? I may be beautiful, roysh, but I'm not stupid and this much I totally know: college focking rocks.
The words of its writers are part of the texture of Dublin, an invisible counterpart to the bricks and pavement we see around us. Beyond the ever-present footsteps of James Joyce's characters, Leopold Bloom or Stephen Dedalus, around the city centre, an ordinary-looking residential street overlooking Dublin Bay, for instance, presents the house where Nobel Laureate Seamus Heaney lived for many years; a few blocks away is the house where another Nobel Laureate, W. B. Yeats, was born. Just down the coast is the pier linked to yet another, Samuel Beckett, from which we can see the Martello Tower that is the setting for the opening chapter of Ulysses. But these are only a few. Step-by-step, Dublin: A Writer's City unfolds a book-lover's map of this unique city, inviting us to experience what it means to live in a great city of literature. The book is heavily illustrated, and features custom maps.
So there I was, roysh, putting the 'in' in 'in crowd', hanging out, pick of the babes, bills from the old pair to fund the lifestyle I, like, totally deserve. But being a schools rugby legend has its downsides, roysh, like all the total knobs wanting to chill in your, like, reflected glory, and the bunny-boilers who decide they want to be with me and won't take, like, no for an answer. And we're talking totally here. Basically, it may look like a champagne bath with, like, Nell McAndrew, with, like, no clothes and everything, but I can tell you, roysh, those focking bubbles can burst. And when they do ... OH MY GOD! Ross O'Carroll-Kelly is all meat and no preservatives, roysh, at least, that's what it says in the can in, like, one particular south Dublin girls' school, which shall remain nameless, roysh, basically to protect the names of the guilty. You know who you are.
So there I was, roysh, twenty-three years of age, still, like, gorgeous and rich, living off my legend as a schools rugby player, scoring the birds, being the man, when all of a sudden, roysh, life becomes a total mare. I don't have a Betty Blue what's wrong, but I can't eat, can't sleep, I don't even want to do the old beast with two backs, which means a major problem, and we're talking big time here. Normally my head is so full of, like thoughts, but now I'm down to just one: Sorcha, I'm playing it Kool and the Gang, but this is basically scary. I mean, I'm Ross O'Carroll-Kelly, for fock's sake, I don't do love.
So there I was, roysh, enjoying college life, college birds and, like, a major amount of socialising. Then, roysh, the old pair decide to mess everything up for me. And we're talking totally here. Don't ask me what they were thinking. I hadn't, like, changed or treated them any differently, but the next thing I know, roysh, I'm out on the streets. Another focking day in paradise for me! If it hadn't been for Oisinn's apartment in Killiney, the old man paying for my Golf GTI, JP's old man's job offer and all the goys wanting to buy me drink, it would have been, like, a complete mare. Totally. But naturally, roysh, you can never be sure what life plans to do to you next. At least, it came as a complete focking surprise to me ... The life and times of Ross O'Carroll-Kelly, the cult hero with a weekly column in The Sunday Tribune.
Ross O'Carroll-Kelly is broke and out of love. His wife has gone to America, taking his daughter with him; his mother has become a celebrity chef on daytime television, with a particular skill for handling phallic ingredients; and his father continues to languish in Mountjoy Jail. To cap it all, Immaculata, a Nigerian girl whom his wife, Sorcha, has been sponsoring by direct debit for fifteen years, has turned up on his doorstep. Things couldn’t get worse. But the long road back begins high in the Pyrenees, in the tax haven of Andorra, where Ross must spread the Gospel of rugby to the strange, primitive natives who have only ever heard of soccer, skiing and duty free shopping. There he meets Conchita, a beautiful, sultry psychoanalyst, who persuades him to look inwards and find out what it is that makes him tick. Sorry, thick.